Columbo
by Sue Snell
Summary: A convenient case of mistaken identity introduces Constantine to an angel who's a little more proactive than Manny. Naturally, shenanigans ensue, but is John in over his head this time?
1. Faux Pas

"Hey! Columbo!"

" _Now, personally,_ I _never answer to that if I can help it," he'd tell him later between sips of his bedtime whiskey, gesturing grandly with a half-smoked Silk Cut, "When you do they take it as a signal to make_ more _bloody jokes. I've never even_ watched _the sodding show and they expect me to laugh at 'Just one more thing, sir…'"_

Cas _did_ respond to it, however, stopping and turning to look at the man who'd hailed him.

A couple of yards down the sidewalk from him stood a man and a woman. They both looked to be in their thirties or forties but were lean and fit in that gnarled way you got from spending some years in prison. The word "thug" certainly came to mind, if only because they both held suppressor-equipped handguns. Pointed at him. Cas sighed.

He supposed this was one of the risks of taking a shortcut through a secluded section of a bad neighborhood on his way to investigate a matter for the Winchesters. (Back when he had wings he'd never have guessed the worst part of travelling by car was the endless quest for parking spaces within a reasonable walking distance of his destination.)

"You're comin' with us, buddy," said the thug, pointing to a car parked nearby (and illegally, but in such a convenient location, Cas noted with a twinge of jealousy).

"Doubtful," said Cas, "And I am not your 'buddy.'"

"No, you ain't," the lady-thug said, advancing upon him, "But you're Constantine, which makes you our ticket to being buddies with the boss."

"Constantine?" Cas repeated, "I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else."

The man-thug came closer as well. Cas didn't feel it'd be right to enter an altercation with these people if he could avoid it. Perhaps he _could_ avoid it, if the whole encounter was just a misunderstanding anyway.

"I'm not Constantine," he repeated, "Apologies."

The woman was unconvinced, but the man showed signs of doubt.

"We _sure_ this is the guy?" he muttered to his partner.

"Come on, an attractive guy that goes around in a trenchcoat and necktie? And he's right where Mister Manor said he'd be. There's no way that ain't him."

"I thought he was supposed to be British. How come he don't got the accent?"

"He has a point," Cas agreed hopefully.

"Oh, come _on_. 'He has a point,'" she repeated in a mocking gravelly growl, "Nice try, Batman, but there's _no_ way that voice ain't fake. You know, he told us you'd try to con your way out of it, so really the more you pretend you're not you the more you prove you are."

" _She's_ got a point," her cohort corroborated.

"I see…" said Cas, "So if I were to say I _was_ this Constantine…?"

"Don't get cute with me," said the woman flatly, "Just get in the car."

"No," said Cas.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I will not say it again. You should leave."

"Look, pal," the flustered lady-thug's buddy spoke up, "Mister Manor's messenger boy said he wanted you alive, but he never said he needed both your kneecaps. Get in the car."

Without a word Cas walked toward the thug, raising his hand.

First the thug made good on the kneecap threat, and when that failed to slow the angel down he emptied his gun into Cas's chest, stepping back from the road for every step Cas took toward him until his back hit a wall. He flinched when Cas touched his forehead, then immediately passed out.

His partner in crime had her gun trained on Cas as he turned to her, but didn't bother pulling the trigger.

"No," she whimpered as he advanced upon her, "Please…"

"Do not be afraid," Cas told her softly as he reached for her forehead. She twitchily squeezed her trigger before going down. Even that bullet, as point blank as point blank got, did no damage.

One might've expected Castiel to leave and go about whatever business he'd been about before at this point, but instead he stood stock-still, head slightly tilted to one side, gazing broodingly into the middle distance.

After several seconds of this, he said, "Hiding won't do you any good."

Several more seconds of silence passed. Cas's eyes narrowed.

"I can hear you breathing," he said, "Are you going to come out, or shall I come find you?"

There was a scuffling from the shadows at the mouth of a close by alleyway, and a figure emerged. He was blond and a bit on the scruffy side, with poor posture and nicotine-stained fingers. He wore a button-down shirt with a thin necktie. And a trenchcoat.

"You must be Constantine."

"Must I?" Constantine replied with a half-grin, "Fair enough, but it wasn't _my_ idea."

Cas frowned.

"Not here for the comedy, eh?" said Constantine, "Fine. Why don't you tell me who you are? _What_ , even?"

"My name is Castiel," he said, "And I'm an angel of the Lord."

Constantine scoffed. Cas would've expected incredulity, but the man seemed merely unimpressed.

"Well, I suppose my kneecaps and I should thank you," he said, "For taking more of an interest than my own 'guardian' angel ever does, even if it was all over this little fashion faux pas."

Cas tilted his head.

"Don't worry, mate," said Constantine, arcing his eyebrows, "You wore it better, no matter _what_ the tabloids say tomorrow."

Ignoring this, Cas asked, "Do you know what this 'Mister Manor' wants with you?"

"Now _that_ ," said Constantine, "Is a _long_ story, and not exactly the kind you tell an angel at that. Suffice it to say that if these two—" he gestured at the unconscious bodies on the ground "—were working for him, they _probably_ deserved what they got."

"They're only sleeping," said Cas.

"Oh," said Constantine, "Well. In that case I should probably be making my exit before they come to. Unless you're in the market to play body double a while longer."

Cas frowned.

"No, I get it," said Constantine, winking playfully, "Fair's fair. I can't ask _you_ to play _me_ unless there's some stuffy bit of angel business you don't like coming up where _I_ can play _you_. Best be on my way, then."

Cas was contemplative as Constantine turned to leave.

"Wait," he said before the man got too far.

Constantine stopped, turned. His forehead creased.

"Now I _was_ joking, mate," he said slowly, "But you're giving me a look like you're _seriously_ about to suggest some kind of… divine Parent Trap scenario to me."

Castiel's gaze fell to the ground. John had to grin at that. It wasn't often you got to see a self-proclaimed "angel of the Lord" look embarrassed.

"Hey," he said, "Don't get me wrong, chief. I'm not saying I'm not _interested_. On the contrary, whatever you've got in mind sounds bloody well interesting already. So, let's hear it, then."

oOo

"What was that?"

"Text from Cas. Listen to this: 'Unable to follow up Re: zombie recipe. Currently investigating opportunity to avoid misfortune. Will update later. Smiley face.'"

"Wow. And I thought he was ominous in person."


	2. Dying Inside

"Zed!" John called out upon entering the millhouse. "Zed! You here?" As Castiel followed him inside, he added more quietly, "Do us a favor and don't touch anything, yeah? I don't _think_ we've got anything that could kill _you_ , but there's a lot of… volatile things here, understand?"

"That mirror is showing the past," said Castiel, pointing.

"Yes it is…" said John, adjusting his grip on the grocery bags he carried in one hand and trying not to look impressed. Castiel's observation might have been a little less peculiar had the mirror been showing anything a normal mirror wouldn't at that particular moment. "Zed!"

"Alright, alright, coming!" came a voice from the kitchen, "I thought Chas wasn't supposed to bring you back for another hour." Zed emerged with a bag of potato chips in her hand.

"Yeah," said John, "Well, I got a ride." He pointed at Castiel.

Zed paused with a chip halfway to her mouth to stare at the pair. Castiel cleared his throat awkwardly.

"So what?" said Zed, "There's _two_ of you now?"

"Heaven forbid," said John dryly.

"Then what's with the Wonder Twins getup?"

"Just a bit of synchronicity," said John, "Nothing more. At least, nothing more, _yet._ "

"What?" said Zed.

"Now," said John, "You like angels, right? This one's called Castiel and I need you to help him bleach his hair." He tossed one of his grocery bags at her and she barely managed to catch it in her arms without dropping her chips.

" _What?_ "

"Well he's never done it before, has he? Apparently they don't go in for the Billy Idol look in Heaven."

Zed looked to Castiel, hoping for a more comprehensive explanation.

"They don't," he confirmed.

"So wait a minute," said Zed. The bag and the chips fell from her arms and she pointed at Castiel. " _You're_ an angel?"

"Yes."

Zed looked him up and down, again taking in the trenchcoat-necktie-attitude ensemble she'd thought only John could pull off.

"Are you sure?"

"Certain," said Castiel.

"Okay," she said, realizing something, "But, John said you gave him a ride."

"I have a car."

Zed hadn't had too many encounters with Manny yet, but from her limited knowledge of the rules she doubted any future visits would involve him _driving_ somewhere in his _car_.

"I thought angels were supposed to be…" She snapped her fingers as she searched for the word. "Incorporeal! How come _you're_ walking around and driving like a normal person?"

"Been meaning to ask that myself, actually," said Constantine, "Now that I've already bummed the ride."

"This isn't my true form," Cas explained, "Which can, I suppose, be described as 'incorporeal.' Interacting with humans is… difficult in that form, so on Earth I make use of this vessel."

"'Vessel'?" Zed repeated.

"You're _possessing_ some poor bastard?" said Constantine.

Cas felt a wave of nostalgia at the question and smiled. Good to know Dean and Constantine would get along well.

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?"

"No," said Cas quickly, his face once more serious, "I was not smiling because I was amused, I smiled because I was reminded of—it doesn't matter. The man who this vessel once belonged to ascended to Heaven years ago, if that's any comfort."

"And I suppose you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with his 'ascent'?" Constantine asked with a sneer.

"If you believed that, you would be wrong," Cas replied.

"Oh, well at least he's _honest_ ," said Constantine, tone all the more acerbic, "Then again, I suppose when you feel no shame you've got no reason to lie."

"I never said I didn't regret—"

"Save it," Constantine grumbled, "There's no undoing what's been done to the poor sod—I get _that_ much—so best if we leave it at that."

"I—" Cas began to say, but the look Constantine gave him stopped him attempting any apology.

" _John,_ " Zed whispered. He ignored her.

"So!" he said, suddenly cheerful, "He's a long way from blond; you two best get started. I'll be in the bathroom if you need me."

"John…?" Zed called after him as he ambled down the hallway.

"I can explain," Cas said.

" _He_ can explain," Constantine called over his shoulder.

oOo

The first thing Chas noticed upon returning to the millhouse was the gold 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V parked outside. It was, after all, pretty noticeable. He parked beside it and stared at it a while.

Pulling out his phone, he reread the text Zed had sent him earlier.

"So, 'John got a ride back, you'll probably want to get back soon.' Who gave him the ride, a pimp?"

Shaking his head, he got out of his cab and headed inside.

"Zed? John?"

"In here!" came Zed's voice from the kitchen. She said something else in a quieter voice that Chas didn't catch.

"Okay, be there in a sec!" he called back. He took a moment to take off his jacket and hat, then went into the kitchen.

At the kitchen table, in a chair with a trenchcoat draped over the back, sat a stranger wearing one of those cheap, one-use, plastic barber bibs that came with home hair color kits. Chas could make out the outline of a necktie under the bib. The man's hair was in the process of turning blond. Across the table from him sat Zed, who wore disposable plastic gloves—no doubt also from the kit—and was listening to a weird monologue:

"…and to the west of the house it is nighttime," the stranger was telling her, "And the sky there is… hard to describe. 'Condensed' might be the right word; you see, it holds all the constellations at once, always. It also looks… closer than the stars generally do on Earth. The effect is really quite stunning."

Chas cleared his throat. They both looked to him.

"I can explain," the stranger said.

"Where's John?" Chas asked Zed.

"Bathroom."

"I _can_ explain."

"Yeah, I'll bet you can," said Chas, "I wanna hear what _he's_ come up with first."

oOo

John stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off, leaving his hair alone for the moment to reduce the risk of staining. Once he was mostly dry, he sauntered over to the mirror and wiped away the steam.

He examined his reflection keenly, took in the way his face looked in its new wet frame of inky locks, plastered to his skull and dripping. He watched his dark counterpart in the mirror grin the grin of a man who's definitely up to something and had to laugh. Yes. This would do nicely.

" _John!_ "

The sudden pounding on the door made John jump, and he reflexively reached for his clothes, began to hastily re-dress.

"A _little_ busy right now, Chas," said John, fumbling with the zipper on his trousers, "Be out in a bit, yeah?"

"John," Chas demanded from the other side of the door while John pulled on his shirt, "Why is there a man dressed like you in our kitchen and why is Zed bleaching his hair? Is this another one of your cons?"

"No," said John. He grabbed a ragged hand towel from the floor and roughly rubbed the excess moisture from his hair. "Not one of _my_ cons, actually. All _his_ idea, if you can believe it."

"And that idea is…?"

In response John flung open the bathroom door, spreading his arms wide in a classic _Ta-da!_ stance.

Chas stared.

"Eh?" said John.

"John," said Chas, "What is this?"

"I'm a bloody angel now, that's what it is," said John, "Let's see how my doppelganger's doing, shall we?" He pushed past Chas, heading for the kitchen.

"You're a _what?_ " said Chas. "John!" He hurried after him.


	3. Other People

"Okay," said Dean, patiently, adjusting his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, "Stop me if I'm wrong: If we go around this corner, again, and pass that big rock shaped like a fist, again, then turn that last corner and wind up back on the highway, _again_ , it'll be the _fifth_ time, right?"

"Right," said Sam as they rounded the corner. He sighed upon spotting the rock.

"And you're _sure_ you wrote Cas's directions down right."

"Positive."

"Okay."

"I mean it!"

"I said okay."

"Look, Dean, there aren't any other backroads like this for _miles_. This _has_ to be the right one, and there's no forks in it. Where else can we go?"

They made the last turn and sat facing the ramp back onto the highway.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean smacked the steering wheel in frustration. He put the car in park and let out a long sigh before giving the wheel an affectionate pat and muttering, "Sorry, baby."

"Maybe we should call Cas."

"Ya think?"

oOo

"So you're telling me _that's_ an angel," said Chas, pointing at the man sitting at their kitchen table most of the way through a hair-bleaching trying to calm down someone named Dean on his cellphone.

"Probably a more impressive sight when he's got his wings out," said John.

"An angel," said Chas, "Like Manny?"

"Not exactly," said John.

"Not exactly?"

"Well _everyone_ can see this one, for starters."

"Huh," said Chas. He cast another look at Castiel, who was saying, "And you're _sure_ your brother wrote down my directions correctly?" Across the table from him Zed watched his scalp with a critical eye, making sure they'd time the rinse just right.

"Like him better than Manny already, don't you?" said John.

Chas shrugged.

"Constantine!" Castiel called out, covering his phone's mic with his hand.

"Oi?"

"Dean says every time he drives _toward_ this place he ends up driving _away_ instead. Do you know anything about this?"

"Oh, right," said John, "That'd be the duplicity spell. Only the three of us can find the millhouse."

"That's problematic," said Castiel.

"Not as such," said John, "Chas, go track them down and lead them back here, will you?"

"Sure thing, John." Chas turned to Castiel. "What are they driving?"

"A black 1967 Chevy Impala."

"Really?" Chas raised his eyebrows. "Nice." He headed out the door.

"See?" said John, "All sorted."

Castiel took his hand off his phone.

"Constantine's tall friend is coming to pick you up. … Taller. … I'm as surprised as you are."

"Honey," Zed whispered, "We need to rinse that out real soon, okay?"

"I have to go now, goodbye." He hung up. "It hasn't been too long, has it?" He sounded deeply concerned.

"You'll be fine," said Zed, smiling, "Just go on and rinse it out now. Bathroom's that way." She pointed. "And when you're done you can tell me more about Bethany."

"Right," said Castiel, "Thank you." He scurried off down the hall.

"Who's Bethany?" John asked, sauntering over to the kitchen table and pulling up a chair.

"This woman," said Zed, "Who died in the seventies. Her heaven is just… amazing. Did you know everyone in Heaven gets their own personal slice? Cas has been telling me about it."

"'Cas'?" John pulled a face. "So now we're giving him cute nicknames? Don't get attached, luv; we're not going to keep him."

"Shut up," said Zed, giggling and rolling her eyes, "Nice hair, by the way."

"You think so?" said John, "Me too. Almost suits me better, I'd say. Maybe I'll keep it like this."

Now it was Zed's turn to pull a face.

"Nuh-uh."

"What?" said John, "I can't keep it like this?"

"Nope."

"So I need your permission now?"

" _Someone_ needs to take responsibility here."

"Oh, _real—_ "

"Do I look convincing?"

Castiel stood in the doorframe of the hallway, shirtless—which John found highly unnecessary—with a towel around his shoulders. His hair was still wet enough to cling limply to his scalp but even so it was easy to tell: Zed had timed it just right, and now Castiel was the exact shade of blond John had just abandoned.

"You look _perfect_ , Castiel," said Zed.

"Maybe once we do something 'bout the eyebrows," said John, "And do you know, Castiel, that this one's taken to calling you Cas behind your back?"

"She wouldn't be the first," said Castiel, grabbing the towel around his shoulders and drying his hair more thoroughly.

"The plot thickens," John murmured teasingly to Zed.

"That's enough, John," Zed whispered back.

Hair mostly dry and incorrigibly ruffled, Castiel returned the towel to his shoulders and took a seat at the table with John and Zed.

"So you two done hogging the bathroom now?" Zed asked.

"I suppose," said John.

"I have trouble imagining circumstances under which I'd ever need to use that particular bathroom again," said Castiel.

Zed laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll be right back." She rose and headed for the hallway, peeling the plastic gloves from her hands as she walked. John and Castiel watched her leave.

"Don't even think about it, mate," said John once she was out of earshot, "A bloke like you can _not_ handle a bird like her, trust me."

"I've no intention of 'handling' anyone."

" _Good._ "

After a moment, John asked, "So how much did you tell these mates of yours about this whole… situation?"

"Very little," Castiel replied, "I thought it would be best explained in person."

"Ah," said John, "Well, I'm sure they'll pick up on it fast enough."

oOo

"Okay, I'm sorry," said Sam, "But could you go over that again?"

The Winchester brothers had arrived half an hour ago, not counting the time Chas and Dean spent admiring each other's "babies." There'd been introductions all around, the one called Dean had called the angel "Cas," John and Zed had traded meaningful looks, and there'd been much consternation over Castiel's new hair color, which made a good segue for him and John to sit everyone down at the dining room table and explain their plan. And then explain it some more.

"We did a spot of scrying," said John, "And sussed out where the rest of Manor's 'employees' are holed up, ready to come looking for me. If 'I' head in before he sends out the dogs—"

"Yeah no," said Dean " _That_ part we get. The part giving me trouble is the one where _he's_ supposed to pass as _you?_ " He pointed to Castiel and John respectively.

"Look," said John, "No one there will have seen me before—"

"But this Manor guy—" Sam interrupted.

" _Won't be there,_ " John said, "Because he knows better than to let me close this time."

"So you were 'close,'" said Dean, "But this guy never even got a picture of you?"

"Not for lack of trying, but you've got to take precautions in this day and age, you know," said John, "Lest you wind up on some shady corner of the Internet where perverts can go have a wank at you. That's what obfuscation spells are _for_."

"… _wow_ ," Zed whispered.

"Constantine's _point_ ," said Castiel, "Is that so long as I fit the description Manor would've given his men—"

"Stunningly handsome blond bloke in a trenchcoat," John supplied helpfully.

"—they'll have no reason to suspect I'm not him."

"Even when he starts smiting," said John with a wicked grin, "They'll expect me to have _something_ up my sleeve, after all."

"Smiting?" said Sam, "Cas, we're not talking about smiting _people_ , right?"

"No, 'course not," said John, "I _know_ our target, and, trust me, the human pair that accosted your mate this afternoon was the exception, not the rule. And no doubt out of the picture after their little bungle at that. No, the search will get serious now, which means all demons and monsters at the clubhouse."

"If there _are_ any humans," Castiel assured the Winchesters, "They'll be safe."

"Sure," said John, "We'll need _someone_ left to run back and tell Manor this little campfire story anyway, won't we? And _that_ should keep him off my arse for a comfy interval."

"Good for you," said Dean, "So what'll _you_ be up to while Cas is busy covering your ass?"

"Constantine," said Castiel, "Will be meeting with an angel on my behalf. A scribe."

"Scribe?" said Sam, "Like Metatron?"

"Not exactly," said Castiel, "These scribes are tasked with interviewing angels who have spent time on Earth and reporting on their whereabouts and activities."

"John," Chas muttered, "Are _you_ following this?"

"From what Cas—" Bugger, now they had _him_ doing it. "—tells me it's sort of like celestial jury duty. Every angel on Earth's got to come in when he gets the call and answer some questions about what he's been up to downstairs."

"Sounds dull," said Chas with a shrug, "I'm not seeing the part where you two needed to trade hair."

"The problem," said Castiel, "Is that there are things I think would be unwise to report to Heaven at this time. I cannot lie to Rachel—my scribe—however. Whenever a scribe is sent on this mission they are entrusted with a sacred artifact—"

"Basically a magical lie detector," John put in.

"More than that," Castiel countered, "It _compels_ angels to tell the truth. When asked a question in its presence, no angel is physically capable of lying or omitting the true answer."

"Right," said John, "No _angel_. Apparently it has no effect on humans."

"Great," said Chas, "Except _you're_ supposed to pass as _him_? Don't tell me this 'scribe' only has a description too."

"Yeah," said Sam, "How's this supposed to work, Cas? Has this Rachel never met you before or something?"

"We've met exactly once," said Castiel, "And I already occupied this vessel then. She'll be expecting me in this form."

"And yet you're sending in _that_ form," said Dean, pointing to John.

"Due to the recent… restructuring in Heaven, Rachel has not done this particular 'job' for long. She's spent _very_ little time on Earth, even less around humans. As she hasn't seen many, she isn't very good at telling them apart."

"So what, we all look the same to her?" said Dean, cocking an eyebrow, "That's racist."

"Regardless," said Castiel, "With his altered coloration Constantine looks sufficiently like me to fool her. All he needs is coaching on what to say."

"Cas!" said Sam, "Are you serious?"

"Of course."

"So this whole scary interview thing of yours has been _this_ easy this whole time?" said Sam, "Why the hell didn't you tell us? I mean, one of _us_ could've—"

" _No,_ " said Cas.

Sam shut up.

"No?" said Dean.

"No," Cas repeated, "This ruse won't be 'easy,' nor will it be safe. If Rachel catches on, the consequences will be… dire. For both myself _and_ Constantine. I could never ask one of you to do this."

"Oh," said Chas, rising to his feet, "But _John's_ expendable, is that it?"

"Take it easy, Chas," said Constantine.

"Take it easy? John, this guy doesn't care if you _die_ tomorrow—"

"Any more than _I_ care if _he_ buggers it up tomorrow and ends up on Manor's list."

"Hardly the same thing," said Chas, sitting back down and crossing his arms.

"I don't like this, John," Zed agreed.

"We're talking about a man with resources you wouldn't believe," said Constantine, "Lucky for us I don't think Manor's ever even _heard_ of angels on Earth, but if Cas here lets slip what he is and gives him a reason, I've no doubt he's equipped to find out how to kill one."

"Cas…" said Dean.

"Constantine and I have already discussed all this," said Cas, "I'm sorry we came to this agreement without consulting you, but we _have_ come to this agreement, whether you like it or not." This was mostly directed at the Winchesters, but he spared a glance in Chas and Zed's direction as well.

"That's right," said Constantine. Seeing Zed's face, he added, "Don't give us that look, luv. This one's jumpin' in the fire for me; I can handle the frying pan."

"Wait," said Chas, " _I_ should be the one to do it."

"Thanks, old son," said Constantine, "But I _had_ already thought of that." He looked to Cas. Cas turned to Chas.

"Human souls are very powerful," he said, "And Rachel has always been more… ambitious than most of our brethren. I don't like to speculate about what she might do with you if she noticed how many souls you contain."

Chas gave a frustrated sigh.

"Wait a minute, you're 'containing' a bunch of souls?" said Dean.

"Long story," Chas replied.

"Huh," said Dean, "Sam was running around with _no_ soul for a while."

Sam shot him a glare.

"Really?" said Zed.

"Long story," said Sam.

" _Anyway,_ " said John, "Like he said, we talked it over, and got the plan all worked out. _You_ two—" he pointed at Chas and Zed "—are going with him tomorrow. Chas'll 'turn me in' to Manor's crew and then the both of you _hang back_ unless and until Cas _needs_ backup, understand?"

" _You're_ the one who's going to need backup," said Chas while Zed rolled her eyes, "Why are we going with _him_?"

"Well, that'd be a fair point, Chas," said Constantine irritably, "If we hadn't _just_ gone over why we need to put as many miles between you and Rachel as we can. Besides, while you two keep an eye on Cas I'll have this pair looking out for me."

"Us?" said Dean, "Look man, no offense, but—"

"You won't want to miss 'my' conversation with Rachel," Cas cut him off.

"Oh really?" said Dean.

"Why?" said Sam.

"Why? Really?" said Constantine, "Did you not catch what we told you just a minute ago? The three of us are going to be locked in a room with an angel and an artifact that _forces angels to answer your questions._ The thing doesn't _just_ work on the angel it's pointed at."

"I doubt Rachel will allow you stay long," Cas put in, "But for whatever time you _do_ get with her, she will be an invaluable resource."

"One _I_ plan to take advantage of as well," said Constantine, rubbing his hands together. Catching the look on Cas's face, he added, "Subtly and completely in-character, of course."

"Glad _you're_ excited," Chas grumbled at John.

"It's not like you've never talked to an angel before," Zed added.

"Oh! That reminds me!" said Constantine, snapping his fingers and turning to Cas, "Been meaning to ask you: I don't suppose you've met Manny, have you?"

"Manny," Cas repeated flatly.

"About yea tall, grey wings, egregiously insufferable?" Constantine said, "Spittin' image of the one on Lost who yelled 'Walt!' a lot. Not that I think all you winged blokes know each other or anything, but—"

"I know who you're talking about." Cas didn't sound happy about this knowledge.

"Whoa," said Dean, "Cas, is this a guy we should be worried about?

"Yeah," said Sam, "Is he like, one of the nasty kinds? What are we talking about here? Rit Zien? Grigori?"

"You and your brother have never encountered his kind," Cas told Sam, though his eyes were on Constantine, "I hope you never do."

"Um," said Dean, annoyed, "Care to elaborate?"

"Later," said Cas, "Constantine, I can't guess why this angel would fraternize with humans in the first place, but if I were you I would not trust him."

"Who says I do?" said Constantine, raising his eyebrows, "Can't say I see a good reason to trust you more than him, though."

"Um," said Sam.

"Your mate won't be the first angel to pull my fat out of the fire," Constantine said to him, eyes on Cas.

"I'm not telling you who to trust," said Cas simply, "I'm telling you who not to."

"Fair enough, squire." Constantine ran a hand through his hair. "Angels bad-mouthing other angels. That one's new."

"Maybe to you," Dean said. John couldn't think of a witty retort to that one.


	4. Slumber Party

The conversation began to dissolve once Cas and Constantine had fully laid out their plan. There was some more argumentative bantering, but nothing changed anyone's mind and soon hunger became an inviting distraction. The Winchesters wanted to leave, but Constantine insisted it'd be safest if everyone stayed at the millhouse until tomorrow. While folks scrounged through the fridge and pantry in search of snacks, Chas threw together a pasta dish to fill in the gaps in people's appetites.

After "dinner" Cas coached Constantine on what to say to Rachel. Once he had it all down and had started in on his first glass of bedtime whiskey, Constantine did some coaching of his own, in the hope Cas would stay "in character" when the time came.

"…and _what_ do we like to say with that hand gesture, Castiel?"

Cas sighed.

"Up yours. 'Tosser.'"

"Can you try saying it like you _mean_ it, though?"

Dean wandered over to them, balancing his own overfull glass of sleepin' whiskey.

"Cas," he said, "You should at least _try_ to do the accent."

"I _am_ 'bloody' trying."

"Come on," said Constantine " _Chas_ does it better than that and he's American as they come."

"What?" said Chas, leaning in from the kitchen.

"Constantine is criticizing my 'sodding' British accent."

"Yikes," said Chas.

"Hey, Sam in there?" said Dean, "Figure we should hunt down our beds for the night."

"Yeah," said Chas. He waved Sam into the room.

"Guest rooms that way," said Constantine, pointing. The brothers nodded and ventured down the hall. Before they got too far, he added, "And boys? Don't go wandering and don't touch anything, okay?"

"There are things here that are volatile," Cas explained. To show willing, he added, "'Bloody dangerous,' that is."

"You know," said Chas as the Winchesters left, "This isn't okay. They know you're British, don't they?"

"What do you suggest we do about it, 'old son'?" Cas asked.

"Christ's sake," Constantine snapped, "You're an _angel_. Only been around since the bloody dawn of time, right? How can you possibly be this American?"

"I'm sorry," said Cas. After a beat he added, "Mate." Constantine groaned.

"Laryngitis," said Chas.

"Come again?" said Constantine.

"I'll tell them you have laryngitis," said Chas, " _You—_ " he pointed at Cas, "—won't talk unless you _have_ to, and then you'll whisper, and they won't hear your accent."

"Laryngitis," said Constantine, shaking his head, "I dunno, Chas. Doesn't exactly inspire faith."

"Yeah, well, it's more convincing than anything _he's_ said since you started him on this 'bloody awful' impression."

"That's fair," said Cas somberly.

"Alright then," said Constantine, eyeing his nearly empty glass, "Laryngitis." He tossed back the last of the drink.

"So can _angels_ get laryngitis," Chas asked Cas, "Or do we need to start training _him_ to talk like _you_?"

"Rachel hasn't kept up with human languages for centuries. She makes heavy use of the Gift of Tongues when she spends time on Earth." Castiel's tone implied Rachel should feel bad about this. "She'd be lucky to guess he's speaking English, never mind the accent."

"Convenient," said Chas.

"Hey." It was the taller Winchester, leaning in the doorframe of the hallway he and his brother had just disappeared down, "Not sure how to ask this, but, do any of your guest rooms have beds without um, restraints?"

"Not that I know of," said Constantine, standing with his empty whiskey glass in hand. "We do a lot of exorcisms here. And have a lot of fun." He winked before heading into the kitchen to get a refill. Chas followed him.

In the kitchen Zed was finishing up a pencil drawing that nearly filled a page of her sketchbook: Black smoke swirling around an indistinct figure in a trenchcoat.

"Should I be worried?" said John, indicating the sketch.

"Yes," said Chas.

"Wasn't talking to you."

"Probably," said Zed, setting her pencil down. "Still don't know what this is, but it doesn't look good, does it?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," John joked, "But now you've brought it up, the background could use a little work."

They both glared at him.

"This isn't funny, John," said Chas.

"What do you want from me then?" said John, "You expect me to call the whole operation off now? Have a little faith, mate!" He smiled, a bit manically, and stared Chas down until the ghost of a grin cracked his façade.

Chas sighed.

"Y'know," he said, "Pretty sure impersonating an angel's a new low, even for you."

"First time for everything, old son," said John, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter and refilling his glass, "You must know that by now."

"I dunno, John," said Chas, "Doesn't this whole thing seem a little too… convenient?"

"Stranger things…" John said, shrugging, "Right, luv?" Zed was being too quiet for his liking.

"Sure," she distantly, sketching the outline of a pair of wings in an unused corner of the page.

"I think I'm gonna head for bed," said Chas, "'Night." He left.

"'Night," said John.

"Me too," said Zed abruptly, dropping her pencil. She swept from the room without another word.

"'Night…" said John. He looked down at the sketchpad, examining the wings she'd abandoned. They weren't even attached to anything. Or anyone, for that matter. He couldn't say why, but this struck him as morbid and he took a healthy gulp of his drink to chase the feeling away before leaving kitchen.

Castiel was right where he'd left him on the couch, but clearly hadn't staid put the whole time: In his hands was an ornate wooden puzzle box, all sliding bits and tiny levers crammed together on an odd number of sides. The angel's head was bent in concentration as he turned it this way and that.

"Did I _not_ tell you to not touch anything?"

"It's just a puzzle box, Constantine. If it could harm me, I'd be able to tell."

"Famous last words…" John muttered, rolling his eyes, "Think you're going to solve it, do you? It's not a _normal_ puzzle box, you know. It changes. It doesn't _like_ people trying to solve it."

"You've advised against leaving the millhouse before tomorrow and I don't sleep," Castiel replied.

John gave that a moment's thought. He shrugged.

"Fair enough," he conceded, "Just tell me if you get bored with that you won't touch anything _else_?"

"I don't believe I'm the one you should worry about," said Castiel. He looked up from the puzzle box and nodded at something behind John.

John turned to see one of the Winchesters leaned against a bookshelf, thumbing through an antique spellbook like he owned the place. It was that tall one—Sam, wasn't it?

"Oi! Put that down!"

Sam at least had the decency to look guilty, but—to John's indignation—did _not_ put the book down.

"What? It's not one the 'volatile' things you were talking about."

"Oh everyone's an expert now, eh?" said John, glancing back at Castiel and his "harmless" box. "Blast how 'volatile' it is, it's not _yours_ , so put it down."

"Hey!" Dean sauntered into the room, mostly-finished whiskey in hand, "What's going on in here? Do I have to separate you two?"

"Your brother seems to be struggling with the meaning of the words 'don't touch anything,'" said John. "Bit of a concern, that. Maybe you should have him tested or something."

"Dean," said Sam, "This book. It has the duplicity spell that had us driving around in circles, it's got wardings, exorcisms, location spells, and _none_ of it is stuff I've seen before. If I could just get a couple of hours with it, I think—"

"See what I mean?" said John, pointing, "Like I'm not even here. _It's not your bloody book, tosser!_ "

"Dean, come on," said Sam, "Help me out here."

"Well, Sammy, he's got a point." Dean took a sip of his whiskey. "I mean, how would _you_ feel if _he_ came back to the bunker with us and started touching _your_ stuff?"

"Dean," said Sam.

"Sam," said Dean. He tossed back the remaining liquor in his glass. "Just put the book back."

Sam rolled his eyes but reluctantly put the book back on the shelf.

"Thank you," said John, "And don't think you're going to sneak it out again while I'm not looking either. You read the part about the anti-theft spell?"

"…yeah," said Sam, his shoulders slumping.

"Not worth it, is it?"

"…no."


	5. Distance

Hours after all the humans had finally gone to bed and the millhouse was quiet at last, late into the silence of the night, long past the point he would've given up from exhaustion had he any need to sleep, Cas was no closer to solving the puzzle box than he was when he first picked it up. In fact, he suspected it'd grown all the more inscrutable under his touch. He was more or less content with this development until it occurred him to think of the box as a metaphor for life. Now he _really_ wanted to—if not entirely _solve_ it—at least improve its state rather than worsen it.

He was brainstorming strategies for accomplishing this when a noise interrupted his train of thought. Footsteps. He looked up and a few seconds later Zed entered the room, wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. Isn't it late?"

"Yeah, but I just couldn't sleep, y'know?"

"I suppose I can relate," said Cas. He smiled slightly before turning his eyes downward and fiddling with the puzzle box some more.

Zed laughed.

"Alright if we talk a while?" she asked, joining him on the couch, "Or would it distract you too much?" She gestured at the puzzle box with a teasing smile.

"I don't mind," he replied, "I am sorry about your sleep troubles. Are you worried about tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, "What about you?"

"Yes." After a few seconds he added, "A little. I'm glad you'll be there."

Zed smiled. There was something so… sincere about the way Castiel spoke. It was kind of hilarious coming from a John lookalike.

"So," she said, "You never told me how you and Dean met."

"I doubt Dean's fond of the story," said Cas. He looked up from the puzzle box and into Zed's eyes, gaging how much she _really_ wanted to hear it. He shrugged, returned his gaze to the box. "Several years ago I raised him from perdition so he could fulfill his destiny. I was more… certain, about a lot of things, back then."

Zed shivered involuntarily at the way Cas said "destiny."

"Perdition," she repeated, "You mean Hell?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute!" She nearly jumped off the couch in her sudden excitement.

"What?"

" _You_ can pull someone out of Hell?" she asked, her eyes alight with hope.

"Not anymore." Cas sighed, twisting the puzzle box at a new angle. "Not in my current state."

Zed's face fell and her shoulders slumped.

"Your 'current state,' huh? What happened to you?"

Cas paused his twisting to give another little sigh.

"Lemme guess." Zed chuckled dully, "'Long story'?"

He smiled at her sadly.

"You have someone you need lifted from Hell?" he asked.

"John does," said Zed, "A little girl. Her name's Astra."

Cas nodded solemnly.

"I'm sorry," he said, "But should my 'current state' improve, I won't forget this conversation, Zed."

Zed blinked back a sudden moisture in her eyes.

"Thank you."

She rose from the couch, dabbing at her eyes as subtly as she could manage.

"I should… I should probably get back to bed." She nearly turned to leave, but paused.

Cas paused as well, setting the puzzle box down in his lap.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Earlier," she said slowly, "You said you knew who Manny was."

"Yes."

"Tell me something," said Zed, "What's _his_ 'current state' like? Could _he_ lift someone from Hell if he wanted?"

Cas gave the matter some thought.

"I'm not the only angel who's recently experienced some changes," he explained carefully, "And I'm afraid I can't speak to what he's capable of at this time. I can only tell you what I told Constantine: Please, do not trust him."

Zed nodded. Something hardened behind her eyes, only to soften when she met Cas's gaze.

"Thank you, Cas," she said, " _Really_. Good night."

"Good night."

oOo

John surprised himself by waking up a little earlier than necessary the next morning. Cautious snooping through the millhouse's other rooms revealed Zed was abusing the snooze button, Chas was hogging the shower, and the Winchesters had already been up and about long enough to stow anything interesting they'd brought with them back in their car and—unless his nose was indulging in some wishful thinking—start a pot of coffee.

He went to investigate and heard a hushed conversation as he drew closer to the kitchen. Creeping as close to the doorway as he could without being spotted, he _tried_ to drop some eaves, but alas the Winchesters and their feathered friend were clearly quite practiced in the art of speaking without being heard. He caught the word "trust" a couple times in there, and his own name once or twice. Enough to tell him the general shape of the discussion, sure, but it still chafed to miss all the juicy details. Must be losing his touch, having this much trouble listening in on a talk under his own bloody roof. Ah well, c'est la guerre, eh?

He gave up and swept into the room without any attempt at stealth, faking a big, stretching-out-and-rubbing-eyes, "just woke up and barely got me head screwed on right now" yawn as he stumbled in the general direction of the coffee pot.

The murmuring at the kitchen table stopped abruptly and three narrowed pairs of eyes turned on him.

"Morning," said John flatly, fishing a coffee mug out of the sink and rinsing it off.

"Morning," said Sam.

"I made a coffee," said Castiel, indicating the half empty pot.

Dean said nothing.

"Nice of you," said John, grabbing the pot and pouring himself a cup. Nearby on the counter sat that bloody wooden puzzle box that had served as a distraction from many a frustrated mortal's sleepless nights and now an angel's as well. Of course you could never really tell, but John was pretty sure Cas had gotten about as far as he tended to when insomnia struck. If he was anything like him he'd made most of his progress by accident rather than by strategy. At least the angel'd be lucky enough to miss it when the blasted thing reset itself in a few days.

He joined the trio at the kitchen table, sipping his hot caffeine with a hunted look, drinking in that hand-never-quite-leaves-the-cup style that favors addicts of all sorts.

"So. Big day today, huh?" said Sam awkwardly.

"I'm ready," said Constantine in a tone scrupulously stripped of defensiveness, "No worries."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, "No worries."

"As am I," said Cas, "Ready, I mean."

"No worries," said Sam with a tetchy grin.

" _Geeze,_ " Dean whispered, rubbing his eyes. Constantine snorted. Dean gave him a sidelong look for a second, then slid his gaze over to Cas, who looked very uncomfortable with the feel of this moment. That was fair. Maybe it was time to move on to a different moment.

"What?" said Cas, catching Dean's look.

"So…" said Dean casually, with the barest hint of a smirk, "Since you said Rachel _has_ met you once, did you make sure to show Constantine how to do the 'puppy who's seen war' look?" Sam snickered.

Cas tilted his head curiously, frowning. Sam repressed a fresh chuckle while Dean pointed.

"Hey," he said, "You paying attention, Constantine? Can you do that? I promise you he gave Rachel that look at least once."

"At _least_ ," Sam agreed.

"What are you talking about?" Cas demanded.

"Oh, so he does that look around _everyone_ ," said Constantine, "I thought I reminded him of the bloke who ran over his kitten or something." Both Winchesters chuckled at this.

"I don't understand," said Cas petulantly, turning the look to Constantine.

"Alright, alright, hold that," said Constantine, setting his coffee mug down, "And I'll see if I can copy it."

"Big eyes, thousand mile stare," Dean advised.

"Don't forget the head tilt," Sam added.

"Yeah," said Dean, "And if you can do the parted lips thing without looking creepy…"

"Speaking of creepy…" Sam muttered, glancing at his brother.

"Is this…" said Cas, "Something you two have… discussed?"

"At length, by the sound of it," Constantine murmured, nearly drowned out by Dean's " _Noooooo_ , 'course not."

"Is this right?" Constantine asked, turning a hearty smolder on Dean.

"Bigger eyes," said Sam.

"Right…" Constantine made an effort to widen his eyes. "Like this?"

"I do _not_ look like that," Cas protested, wearing a hurt expression that was not at all puppy-like.

"Yeah," said Dean, "Try for more, like… pensive. _This_ is…" He frowned uncomfortably under the force of Constantine's continued stare. "This just feels like you're trying to rape me with your eyes."

"And _don't forget the head tilt_ ," Sam repeated.

"I look _nothing_ like that," Cas reiterated as Constantine's neck bent at an odd angle.

"Heard you the first time, Sting," said Dean, "Jesus, don't tilt _that_ far."

"Look at him," said Sam, pointing to the angel whose face was just some eyeliner and a freak rainstorm short of a closeup in some teen angst music video, "You have to look like _that_."

"I'm _trying_ …" Constantine stopped staring Dean down to have another look at Cas. Cas crossed his arms and looked away, turning in his chair to get his face out of Constantine's line of sight. "Well _that's_ hardly fair. How am I supposed to get it right without a model?"

"Try to look like _this_ ," said Sam. He gazed at Constantine with large, liquid eyes, his chin dipped just far enough to lend a hint of vulnerability and his neck visibly tense with anxiety.

"Well," said Dean as Constantine tried to reflect Sam's look back at him, "Glad _this_ didn't get weird."

"If it's too 'weird' for you, that's your own fault," Cas grumbled.

"Cas…" said Dean. Before he could think of something to follow up with, a sasquatch-sized shadow wavered in the corner of his eye of and he turned to see Chas entering the room.

"Hey Chas," said Dean.

"Hey!" said Sam, abruptly ending his impromptu staring contest with Constantine.

"Hey," said Chas. Looking to Constantine, he said, "Morning John."

"Morning, Chas."

Constantine gave Chas a soulful look, his eyes big and shimmery, his head tilted… a bit too far to one side.

"Um…" said Chas, hoping the look would stop. When it didn't, he asked, "John, what are you doing?" No response, just more staring. "Whatever it is, it feels… wrong."

"Eyerape," said Dean.

"Bugger," Constantine muttered, finally breaking off the stare.

"Yeah, don't do that again," said Chas, walking the rest of the way into the kitchen and pouring himself a mug of coffee, "For a second there I thought you might be possessed again."

"You've been possessed?" Sam asked.

"Glass houses, Sam," said Dean.

"Shut up."

"You shouldn't give Rachel that look," said Cas, turning back around in his chair to face the group, "We need to avoid arousing suspicion, and signs of demonic possession are suspicious."

"For humans, maybe," said Constantine into his reclaimed coffee mug between a couple of sips, "But angels can't get possessed, can they?"

"Not by demons," said Cas with a brooding, distant look John half wanted to photograph for reference.

After taking a big gulp and setting the mug down, John said, "I'm sensing a story and a half there, mate. Unless we're feeling too secretive…?"

"Glass houses, John," said Chas with a smirk, leaning against the counter.

"Right," said John with a handwave, "I suppose it'd take too long for breakfast time anyway."

"You're not wrong," said Dean.

Without any stories the largely-liquid "breakfast" soon descended into grim silence. No more joking around, no more "practicing" funny faces, only somber and solitary contemplation of the tasks ahead. Within the hour everyone was fully awake, dressed, and caffeinated, and it was time to go.


	6. Setting the Scene

Chas did _not_ like the field they'd be making their play on. He hadn't expected to like it, but he _had_ expected something less… claustrophobic?

Manor's crew had set up shop in an aluminum storage container in a little-used and little-maintained facility a few miles out of town. It was big for a storage container—the largest size the place had—but that didn't change the fact that they were walking into a fairly isolated hot metal box with only one way in or out.

He gripped Castiel's arm and put on his tough face as he marched the angel toward that entrance. At least with all the agitation of this moment he hardly had to fake the animosity he felt toward his charge. As for himself the angel kept a neutral face on, "hiding" the "fear" that "Constantine" should be feeling right now as well as not tipping anyone off that he had the upper hand.

Just as they reached the double doors at the front of the container they opened. Chas tightened his grip on Castiel and kept his gameface on. No need to panic yet; there were probably just a lot of monsters in there with senses heightened enough to hear them coming. Okay, not the most comforting thought, but it would still be better than Manor's crew already being onto them.

In the doorway stood a muscular man about as tall as Chas was. He had long hair, pale skin, and too many teeth in his smile.

"You're not gonna ask for a password, are you?" Chas asked coolly.

"Nope," Door Man replied. He looked Castiel up and down. "That who I think it is?"

Chas rolled his eyes and repressed the urge to say something sarcastic. Instead, he said, "I heard there was a bounty."

"Sure," said Door Man. He backed up from the doorway and waved them into the gloom beyond. "Come on in and get it."

Bright as it was outside, Chas could barely see the shadowy figures beyond the door, but he could tell there was a lot of them. Wondering how many souls he'd be "containing" by the end of the day, he stepped inside, trailing Castiel along with him like trenchcoat-clad balloon.

"Is that who I think it is?" came a high-pitched male voice from the far end of the room.

"Is there an echo in here?" Chas muttered. The door closed behind him and he squinted into the dimness.

The stuffy room was lit by a couple of electric lanterns scattered about, and filled with about two dozen people. Well, probably not that many _people_. Some of the monsters were easy to spot—something off about the teeth or eyes—but some of the others looked like they _might_ be human. There was a whiff of sulfur about the place, though, and Chas didn't doubt that most of the otherwise innocuous meatsuits watching him weren't piloted by their rightful owners. A lot of the monsters brandished weapons—swords, daggers, there was even a crossbow in the mix—but he didn't see any guns around. He guessed this facility _did_ have staff that ostensibly would call the police if gunshots were heard.

The man at the far end of the room approached them, sauntering a bit theatrically to make it clear that he was in charge of the situation and had nothing to fear from the monsters nor his unexpected guests. He carried a briefcase.

The man in charge stopped about a yard away from them and looked Castiel up and down.

"Can't say I expected to see you _quite_ so soon, Mister Constantine."

Castiel said nothing. Which was, Chas reminded himself, correct, him "having laryngitis" and all. The man turned his attention to Chas.

"And what brings _you_ here?"

"I heard there was a bounty," Chas repeated. Once you have a story, might as well stick to it.

"There is indeed," said the man, "Though I must admit I thought I'd be handing it to one or more of my friends here." He gestured at the assembled ruffians.

"So you _are_ going to hand it to me?" Chas said.

"You going to tell me how you even knew to bring him here?" said the man, gesturing at Castiel.

"You're Manor's 'messenger,' right?" said Chas, "Overheard a couple of your other 'friends' talking about him. Figured out the details." He figured it was safe to expect a guy with this many monster "friends" to be unfazed by what John called "a spot of scrying."

"Figured it all out, huh?"

"Yup."

"You're not one to waste words on extra details yourself, are you?"

"Nope."

"And you're not the least bit concerned about one of my friends here just killing you before you can collect your money? It's technically coming out of their paychecks, after all." A few of the assembled faces frowned and the man quickly added, "Though you all _will_ still be compensated for your participation in Phase Two, rest assured."

"Been done," said Chas with a shrug, "Trust me, just paying me and letting me walk out will go a lot faster."

"You know," the man said, fidgeting with the briefcase, "I think I _might_ just believe you." He turned his attention to Castiel.

"From what I've heard," he said, "You're not usually the quiet type. What gives?"

"He got laryngitis," said Chas severely.

"Laryngitis?" The man raised his eyebrows.

" _Laryngitis,_ " said Chas.

"Never heard a guy sound so pissed about laryngitis," the man replied, amused.

"My wife has laryngitis," Chas grumbled.

The man laughed at this while Cas endeavored to look unsurprised by Chas's improvisation. Internally, he had to admit it was a good one. He'd have to remember to congratulate him on his quick thinking later.

"That true, Constantine?" the man asked, eyeing Cas.

Cas nodded. He tried smiling as well, hoping pride would be in-character. He glanced in Chas's direction and one look at the barely-repressed fury showing on the man's face was enough to wipe the smile off of Cas's. This little performance was enough to set the man in charge to laughing again while Cas made a mental note that Chas's acting skills were truly impressive.

"Here's your money, pal," the man said, sliding his briefcase across the floor to Chas. Chas picked it up, cracked it open, and examined its contents as if he'd actually protest if he found the amount small or the currency fake.

"Thanks," said Chas, snapping the briefcase shut.

"My pleasure," said the man, "I could probably scrounge up a little more for you if you want to stick around for Phase Two."

Chas shrugged one shoulder, pretending to consider the offer, but only a little.

"Got somewhere I need to be soon," he said, "What _is_ Phase Two?"

"Surprised you didn't 'figure' that out too," said the man, "It's the part where we kill him."

oOo

John checked his watch for the seventh time in the past five minutes while his other hand twitched longingly toward the pocket where he kept his Silk Cut. The wait should've been over by now. Should've been over half an hour ago, actually. Didn't help that the awkward silence made those thirty minutes feel like so many days. Special little slice of Hell this place was, which he supposed made it a pretty ironic field to meet an angel on.

Their meeting was disguised as a doctor's appointment at a small local hospital. Rachel had procured one of the doctors there as her vessel, Castiel had made an appointment for a checkup on the behalf of _his_ vessel, and now all that was left to do was to sit in the waiting room with the Winchesters until someone called Jimmy Novak's name and took him back to a nice, private room where they could chat. The whole thing had a bit of a "we meet on neutral ground" vibe that made John wary. He supposed a little distrust was warranted, considering he already knew Cas had things to hide from Heaven—At the end of the day, who doesn't?—but _this_ felt like the line between distrust and outright fear.

He wished he could step outside for a smoke, but knew if he did they'd call his name the moment he was gone. Not a good idea to let Rachel catch him doing something like that anyway. If Castiel was one for any human vices at all John doubted nicotine was one of them.

"Mister Novak?"

John looked up.

"Doctor Pierce will see you now."

He smiled and stood. Showtime.

He followed the assistant down the hall to a cozy examining room where it turned out he'd get to wait _another_ indeterminate interval until it was time to either meet with Rachel or lose his mind. The Winchesters followed him. It was obvious the assistant found this strange, but she didn't bother to ask about it, so he didn't bother to come up with a cute explanation.

The examination room was furnished with a padded table, a wooden chair, and a stool with wheels on. Once the assistant closed the door behind them, John threw himself into the chair as casually as possible while Dean made a less than graceful beeline for the stool.

"Really guys?" said Sam.

"Jealous?" said Dean, spinning himself around a few times.

Sam sighed, rolled his eyes, and took a seat on the table. John noted with a twinge of jealousy that he was tall enough to do so without his feet leaving the floor.

"So," said Dean, rolling himself closer to John, "You ready for this, 'Cas'?"

"Yes," said John, "Though now I'm desperately curious about what your plan was had I said 'no.'"

Dean rolled over to the table and looked up at his brother.

"Hear that, Sam?" he said with a grin, "He thinks we have a plan."

" _You're_ cheerful all of a sudden," Sam said.

Dean shrugged.

"Guess I really kind of like this whole 'talking to an angel that can't lie to us' thing we're about to do here. We really need to _get_ one of these 'artifacts.' Think they come in different flavors?"

"What?" said Sam.

"I see what you mean," said John, "Be _real_ nice if we could get our hands on a demon truth serum."

" _Right?_ " said Dean.

"Yeah," said Sam. With a thoughtful look, he added, "Then again, remember how it was _last_ time people couldn't lie to you, Dean?"

"Oh sure," said Dean, crossing his arms, "Take the fun out of everything." He rolled back over to John's side of the room.

He was about to say something else when the door opened and they all looked up to see Rachel. Or her vessel, rather.

John wondered in that moment just how an angel went about choosing a vessel when they did this whole possession bit, how much thought Rachel had put into picking out the meatsuit she wore right now. The scribe took the form of a short, thirty-ish redheaded woman, all freckles and bouncing curls and vivid green eyes and _just_ busty enough to draw the eye in a way John wouldn't expect an angel to want to. She wore a necklace that had an oddly-shaped glowing blue rock for its pendant. The artifact, presumably.

"Hi Rachel," said Sam quickly as she closed the door behind her, "What does Heaven know about where the demon tablet ended up?"

"Yeah, hey Rach," said Dean, "Are angels really junkless?" The look Sam gave him could've flash-frozen a year's worth of TV dinners.

"I don't know the answer to your question," said Rachel to Sam, a pained grimace creasing her features. Turning to Dean, she said, "And I don't understand yours." Before either brother could try a different question, she quickly said, "Castiel, this is to be a _private_ meeting and if your friends don't leave— _without_ any further questions—I will _not_ hesitate to remove them."

"Yeah," said John, standing, "You lads should probably wait outside." Too bad for them, but the way she'd said "remove" would scare _him_ out if were them.

"Yeah, okay," said Sam, scowling. He shot another glare at Dean as he headed out the door.

"Fine," said Dean. He stood, kicked the stool back toward the wall, and followed his brother out.

Now it was just John and Rachel, standing at opposite ends of the small, quiet room, watching each other.

"Castiel," she said.

"Rachel…" said John. He pinned his thoughts to everything Castiel had told him over the past several hours since they'd met, and all the things left unsaid as well. That angel was a bloke with _history_ and John got the feeling that even if they hadn't worked out this last-minute ruse, Rachel would never have enough time or even think up the right questions to get all of it. He thought back to asking him about possession only to get that ominous _"Not by demons"_ bit, and he thought of all the "long stories" he and the Winchesters had left untold. He stared straight into Rachel's eyes and thought, _I know you want me to tell you everything luv, but I just can't do it. Couldn't if I_ tried _, and that's the real tragedy, innit? How even if I_ really _wanted you to understand it all, you never would._

Aloud, he merely said, "Been a long time, hasn't it?" His head might have been tilted slightly. He didn't dare spare that matter any thought until Rachel broke eye-contact.

"It's been a matter of mere years since we met…" she said, but her voice had that note of uncertainty, and John fought the urge to smile as her eyes nervously turned to the ground.

 _That's right, luv,_ he thought, _Only takes a bloke like this "mere years" to see more than you have in the past millennium. You're out of your depth and there's nothing you can do about it._ She glanced back up shyly and it took every ounce of John's self-control to not react to the look in her eyes. _And damn it all if you don't sort of like it, eh?_ She glanced away again. Now that it felt safe to check, John confirmed that his head _was_ tilted just a little bit, and his lips had parted slightly. Crying shame the Winchesters had to miss it; he was pretty damn sure he'd just nailed the look.


	7. Action

"So Constantine, you can't talk at _all_?"

Cas thought the better question was why the man in charge was still talking to _him_. He'd announced his intention to kill him. Chas had left—without arousing any suspicion, as far as Cas could tell. What else was there to discuss? Might he be onto their ruse? Did Cas need to do something more to prove he was Constantine, lest the entire charade crumple?

The man watched him expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer.

"Speaking is difficult," Cas said in a raspy whisper, doing his best to make his voice sounded weak and strained and far too faint to allow any reliable accent detection.

"Well," said the man, "I guess at least that means less screaming once I give the word to my friends here. Sorry if it seems like a _lot_ of folks to be killing you all at once, but I like to think of it as strategy. Let me tell you something."

Cas certainly hadn't planned to stop him, baffled as he was by this impromptu lecture.

"They call me Hoover," the man said, "Wanna guess why?" He stared Cas down until the angel realized he actually expected a guess.

"Because that's your name?" he whispered, his face completely serious.

"Ha," said Hoover. "Y'know, he told me you were funny, but I didn't believe him? No, smartass, it's not my name. You see, men like Manor have this tendency to make… messes. Piss off the wrong cop, buy the wrong drug, screw the wrong girl— _or_ boy, of course." He gestured at Cas. " _Messes_. Hard things, complicated things, things that explode in your face if you don't handle them right. Big, nasty, messes on their fancy white carpets.

"They call me Hoover," he concluded, "Because I'm the one they call in to clean those messes up."

Cas wondered if he was done talking now.

"Now you," said Hoover (ah, still too soon), "From what I hear, are a special kind of mess. Lot of folks've tried to kill you, but you've always got some kind of trick up your sleeve that lets you slip out of it. Of course, a lot of guys are like that when the bounty hunters wander up one at a time."

Cas glanced around at the assembled monsters. Hoover caught his look and smiled.

"Yes," he said, "Hence the gangbang. _But_ , here's the thing. I've got the feeling you've got something up your sleeve for even _this_ occasion." He reached into his pocket. Cas watched him cautiously. What was he going to pull out? A weapon of some sort? Hoover pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal… a pack of cigarettes? He took a few steps forward, closing the gap between himself and Cas.

"But maybe I'm wrong," he said, "So how about a last smoke?" He handed Cas the pack. Cas stared at it blankly.

"Silk Cut," said Hoover, "Heard they were your favorite, John."

Cas nodded, eyes wide. Of course _._ This was turning into a true test of "Constantine's" authenticity, and things would go very badly if he didn't pass. He fumbled a cigarette out of the package. It couldn't be difficult, right? Millions of humans did it every day. He was fairly certain _Jimmy_ never had, but, theoretically, he easily could've started at any time, right?

He stared down at the little carcinogenic cylinder lying on his palm. Which end was supposed to go in his mouth again?

"Let me get that for you," said Hoover, pulling a lighter out of his pocket.

Cas nodded gratefully. No need to panic now; he knew enough to know you didn't set fire to the same side you put in your mouth. Absent-mindedly tucking the rest of the pack in his pocket, he carefully pinched the cigarette at the middle—exposing both ends without a hint of favor toward one or the other—and held it out toward Hoover.

The look Hoover gave him and the proffered cigarette had him worried he'd done something incorrectly, but the man lit one end without comment. Keeping his face completely neutral—not daring to let slip the barest hint that this wasn't something he'd done a million times—Cas brought the unlit end to his lips and inhaled.

The coughing fit was truly spectacular, bending him over and shuddering his entire frame with its force. He'd never felt his vessel fight so hard to expel something before, even counting the time he'd spent as a homeless human who frequently ate things other humans discarded.

Fighting to recover quickly, he looked to Hoover with watering eyes. The man almost looked concerned about his health. Cas was starting to think his reaction to the cigarette might be outside the realm of normality. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.

He tossed the cigarette down and stamped it out irritably.

"It would seem that cigarettes exacerbate the laryngitis," he whispered. As an afterthought, he hissed, " _Bollocks._ "

"Tough break…" said Hoover. He didn't look entirely convinced. Cas prepared to panic.

"Hey," said Hoover, "Wait a minute… I offered you _one_ last smoke; did you just steal that whole pack?"

Cas wasn't sure how to respond. He supposed, technically, he had, though he hadn't meant to.

"Rat bastard," said Hoover amicably, "Man, he was _not_ exaggerating when he told me about you."

Cas marveled at his luck that this entire blunder had ultimately served to _eliminate_ any doubt Hoover had left that he was indeed Constantine. It'd be unwise to push that luck much longer.

"But," Hoover went on, "Here's the thing, pal. You're not the only one who knows how to make the most of an interval of misdirection."

Misdirection? Seeing the question in Cas's eyes, Hoover gestured for him to turn around.

A glance over his shoulder revealed to Cas that Hoover's non-human henchmen had not been idle while Cas's attention was elsewhere. The double doors he'd entered through were chained shut, and the monsters had drawn in close, forming a tight circle, a barricade of bodies.

"Sorry that last smoke didn't work out," said Hoover, "But that's all you're getting."

Cas narrowed his eyes at Hoover then spun around to confront the thugs behind him. The sudden motion startled a couple of them into stepping back, but the group at large clearly didn't feel too threatened. He glanced at the building's only exit again. The chain about the door handles had been secured with a padlock. That meant one of his hopeful killers had the key…

"Whatever you're thinking of trying, Constantine," said Hoover, "I wouldn't recommend it. You're outnumbered, outbid, and out of lucky breaks. You can try running. Hell, maybe it'll even buy you a few minutes, but you're not getting past that lock. Don't know if you're enough of a history buff to know about the Men of Letters, but that lock was stolen straight from one of their strongholds. Warded against demons and magic and psychic powers and all kinds of things we've never even heard of, more than likely. Should be enough to withstand any tricks _you've_ got."

Cas was thankful for his imaginary laryngitis because he couldn't begin to imagine what sort of response Hoover anticipated. Did he expect Constantine to simply give up and accept his fate without fuss? He eyed the skin-tight jeans on a blonde vampire who was licking the tip of a blood-stained dagger suggestively, saw a key-shaped bulge in one of the front pockets. Weapons were unsheathing and he heard Hoover's hurried footsteps getting out of the way behind him. No point wasting any more time trying to act like Constantine. Now it was time to act.

oOo

Sam and Dean leaned against the wall outside Rachel's office, waiting. They'd both tried listening in at first, but the door was too thick and Constantine and Rachel too quiet to allow them to pick up more than a few words at a time.

"How much longer you think this'll take?" Dean asked, checking his watch.

"How should I know?" said Sam, "I mean, I guess it can't take _really_ long, right? Cas would've warned us."

"Good," said Dean, "Sooner we get this over with and drop him off back at the magic treehouse, the better."

"Really? I thought he was your new best friend."

Dean grimaced.

"What?" said Sam, laughing.

"It's just, working with him…" Dean made a vague gesture. "Kinda feels like working with Crowley, y'know?"

"What, because of the accent?" said Sam, " _That's_ racist."

Dean snorted. "Shut up."

Sam snickered. "Jerk."

"Bit— _ahem_." Dean cleared his throat, cutting himself off at the last second when he spotted a haughty-looking lady in pink scrubs coming down the hall toward them. Even though he was _sure_ he caught himself in time, she was definitely giving them the stinkeye. Naturally, Dean glared back as she passed, but then she _didn't_ pass. She stopped at the door.

"Hey!" Dean barked.

"Excuse me?"

"Um," said Sam, gesturing at Dean to calm the hell down, "There's a doctor meeting with a patient in there."

"I know," Pink Scrubs said, "I work here."

"But I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be like, a private—"

"Sam…" said Dean. A couple more people were approaching, two men who looked like they also worked at the hospital, but Dean didn't think they were doing their jobs right now. They walked purposefully, eyes trained on the Winchesters. One pulled out a knife, smiling.

Sam spared a split-second glance at the men and returned his attention to Pink Scrubs's face just in time to watch her eyes turn black.

"Yeah, okay," Sam muttered, drawing his own blade. Dean belted Pink Scrubs in the mouth.

"Whole thing was starting to feel too easy anyway," he said, shaking out his hand.

oOo

Hoover had a mess on his hands.

He'd expected Constantine to have _something_ up his sleeve, but he thought it'd be something a big box of assorted monsters could handle. A mass exorcism for the demons, maybe, or some kind of magic superweapon—those always had a few species exceptions, and Hoover had selected for diversity when putting together his team. _This_ was… well, a _mess_.

Maybe he should've gotten worried when he pulled out the blade. The way it glowed and sizzled whenever it took out a demon clearly marked it as magical, after all. But that didn't seem like such a big deal at first; it was hardly the only magic weapon in the room.

No, the _real_ red flag had been him going for the blonde vampire chick first. She was the one Hoover trusted with the warded lock. The one with the key. At first Hoover thought Constantine wanted the key so he could get himself out, but no.

He was keeping everyone else in.

After tucking the key somewhere in the depths of his trenchcoat he'd gripped that magic blade of his and carved a bloody path through anyone dumb enough to not back away after seeing how fast he took down the vampire. For a few of them he didn't bother getting his weapon dirty, just grabbed them by the top of the head and cooked them from the inside out in a bright flash of light. Hoover had known in advance the guy could do "magic," but _that_ had to be the kind of thing you sold your soul buy, didn't it? _Someone's_ soul, anyway. He shivered, hugging his knees tighter where he sat curled up against the wall. He'd sure as hell never make the mistake of underestimating John Constantine again. He only hoped he lived long enough for that to matter.

The trenchcoat-clad menace had dispatched all his bravest victims and was cleaning up the stragglers now, chasing down and cornering the runners like some demented Benny Hill sketch. No survivors, huh? He'd heard Constantine was as cold as they came, but this was ridiculous. He just wished he knew why he was saving him for last.

Hoover didn't know why Cas put such priority on killing all the demons and monsters before they could escape. He didn't even notice he'd worked especially hard to take care of all the demons before they could smoke out and head home to Hell to gossip, but if he had he'd have never guessed why. And of course he wasn't aware that, as the only human in the room, the worst Cas would do to him was put him to sleep for a while.

Cas stowed his blade as he smote the last monster in the room—a ghoul who'd taken the form of what appeared to be a body builder for the occasion—and then he slowly made his way over to where Hoover waited. The man was visibly terrified—shaking—but he didn't bother trying to run.

"H—how," Hoover gasped as Cas drew close, "How did you do all that? What _are_ you?"

Castiel stood over him and paused. He tilted his head and got a distant look in his eyes, as if trying to remember something. At last it came to him.

"I'm a nasty piece of work. Ask anyone."


	8. People-Shaped Things

Chas's cab was parked on a hill just beyond the storage facility's perimeter that offered a mostly unobstructed view of the "clubhouse." The walk back only took a few minutes, but he felt anxious the whole time, kept expecting someone to come out and chase after him or something.

When he got back to the cab Zed was perched in the passenger's seat, watching the container through a pair of binoculars. He opened the driver's side door and grabbed his own pair, tossing his briefcase of cash in the backseat.

"How'd it go?" Zed asked, "Did they buy it?"

"Hell if I know," Chas grumbled, climbing in and slamming the door. He glared through the binoculars at the container a moment before dropping them in his lap with a frustrated sigh.

"Wow, you act this pissed while you were in there?"

"You know I don't like this."

"Yeah, I know." Zed sighed. "But John'll be alright, okay? Sam and Dean are with him."

"Oh, so I'm just supposed to trust them?"

"They've trusted us so far. Maybe it's time to return the favor, huh?"

"Sure," said Chas. He took another peek through the binoculars, hoping Castiel would already be done in there. How long could it take to smite a room full of monsters, anyway? He muttered, "Right now it's _him_ I'm more worried about, anyway. He messes up and we're _all_ in trouble."

"Look," said Zed, "I'm sure he—"

 _Buzzzzzzz!_

"What was that?" said Chas.

"My phone… It's a text from Cas."

"What's it say?"

"Apparently he took care of all the monsters, but now he's run into some kind of 'difficulties'?"

"Difficulties."

"He put a frowny face," Zed deadpanned, "Must be serious."

Chas sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Come on," said Zed, opening her door, "Let's go see what's going on."

oOo

John had been feeling pretty good about his chat with Rachel. He gave her all the answers Castiel had fed him and she seemed to like them. She didn't ask any tricky questions, either. The whole thing had been going impossibly smoothly until they heard the commotion beyond the door.

"What's all that noise?"

"I know as much as you do," said John, staying in the habit of answering all questions immediately the way the artifact forced Rachel to, "Sounds like my mates found something to fight out there." Was it too much to hope they'd _keep_ it out there?

The door flew open.

Apparently yes.

In the doorway stood a tall dark man with the telltale black eyes of demonic possession. Before John or Rachel could do anything he slammed the door behind him and ripped the doorknob off, locking them in. He grinned at Rachel.

"Hey pretty lady," he said, "What's that pretty necklace of yours do?"

"It's a sacred artifact," said Rachel automatically, her eyes wide with horror, "Which compels angels to speak the truth when asked a question."

The demon chuckled.

"Well," he said, "I think I wanna get me one of those." He turned to John. "What do _you_ think?"

Not hard to guess Castiel's honest answer here.

"I would rather you didn't."

The demon laughed again. While his attention was on John, Rachel crept up behind him.

 _That's right, luv,_ John thought, _Now's the time to get a good smite in._ He just hoped she wouldn't wind up asking him why he didn't do it himself.

Rachel's hand landed on top of the demon's head, glowing white. John squinted in anticipation of the bright flash—Castiel had told him what this ought to look like—but he wouldn't close his eyes all the way for a million dollars. All the work of an afternoon of holy water and bitching in Latin condensed down into a flash of light. Boggled the mind. No way he was gonna miss it.

But instead of burning to a white hot crisp inside his meatsuit like he was supposed to, the demon smirked.

"That tickles," he said. He whirled around and grabbed Rachel by the wrist, twisting. Rachel yelped and tried to pull back and away, but the demon's grip held firm.

" _H—how?_ " she grunted, still struggling to twist out of his grasp. John noticed her movements put her body in a good position to block her uncaptured hand from the demon's view.

"You're not the only who can get their hands on a sacred artifact when the occasion calls for it," the demon said, "Right now, I'm completely smite-proof."

"Interesting. Are you immune to _this?_ " Rachel's other hand came back into sight wielding a blade. Ah, right. Castiel had told John about these things too. Angel blades. Swords that kill basically everything. As the demon lunged about in an attempt to dodge Rachel's slashing while still keeping his hold on her, John frowned. Now he'd have to spend the _whole_ rest of the afternoon pretending it hadn't just occurred to him that if he made it out of this and Rachel didn't at least he'd walk away with a shiny new toy. Ah well, not the most likely scenario anyway.

Rachel, meanwhile, had managed to slice her adversary a couple of times but had yet to get a good stab in thanks to the demon's grip on her arm. She gave up on the stab attempts for a moment to instead lunge away from the demon, throwing all her body weight into her bid for freedom. She didn't count on the demon spotting her strategy, however. He let go.

Rachel crashed to the floor with a painful _thud!_ that made John flinch. _C'mon luv, get back up. Trust me, you don't want_ me _taking over the fighting…_

Before Rachel could scramble to her feet the demon stepped on her blade with one foot and kicked her in the head with the other. He scooped up the blade from the floor while poor Rachel was still trying to get her eyes uncrossed and held the tip to her throat.

 _Dammit._

Rachel put her hands up, accepting defeat. For the moment, anyway. The demon turned his attention to John.

"Don't get any cute ideas, Castiel," he said.

"Who, me?" John said, holding his own hands up placatingly.

"So where's _your_ blade?"

"I didn't bring it." Wait, that wasn't an answer to the question. "Should be out in the hall; I loaned it to the Winchesters." Plausible, right? Better than explaining some _other_ bastard in a trenchcoat was slaughtering bounty hunters with it right now, at any rate.

"Castiel!" Rachel gasped, "That's highly irresponsible!"

"Well I didn't think I'd need it!" said John, feeling defensive in spite of himself, "And I trust them. Thought I could trust _you_."

"Okay, that's enough," said the demon, waving them into silence. He pointed to John.

"I was told to make my 'best effort' to bring _you_ in alive," the demon told him with a sneer. He looked to Rachel.

"You? Could go either way." He stared down at her pensively. He actually seemed to be stopping to think about it. Well fine, let him be dramatic; it'd give John time to do some thinking himself.

So, no smiting nor stabbing to be done here. All that was left was a good old-fashioned exorcism, then, right? Would it bend credulity if "Castiel" knew how? John didn't think _he'd_ ever have bothered to learn if he had a sword that killed everything and knew how to use it. Then again, how much worse could getting caught be than whatever the demon had in mind for him?

Right. First things first. He needed to get the demon off Rachel's ass, get it paying attention to him again.

 _Now,_ John asked himself, _If I were an angel_ and _an American, what the bloody Hell would I call this wanker?_

He pondered it a moment. Not an easy question. He shrugged. Whatever popped out, then.

"Hey!" he called out to the demon, "Assbutt!"

The demon looked up from Rachel, eyebrows drawn.

"Assbutt?"

John shrugged.

"Exorcizamus te," he said, "Omnis immundus spiritus."

"Oh no you don't," the creature growled, hefting Rache's sword and advancing upon John.

"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…" John muttered, trying to speed up his words. The demon had backed him against the wall, brandishing the weapon.

"Shut. Up."

"Omnis con…" John trailed off, eyeing the blade nervously.

"That's what I thought," said the demon.

 _Bollocks. Now what?_

"Con…?" Rachel coughed and straightened up gingerly.

"What?" said John.

"Congregatio?"

"What?" said the demon, whirling around. John grinned.

"That's right, luv," he said, "Et secta diabolica, even." How silly, he thought to himself, that he'd thought an angel who hadn't kept up with human language for centuries—meaning she _had_ back in the old days—would find anything strange about him reciting a little exorcism. Once you got past the language barrier it was really just telling the demon off, wasn't it?

The demon whirled back around, still brandishing the blade, but it was no good now. Pain already creased its features and it was clear it would need to flee its body soon if it couldn't keep _both_ of them from reciting the exorcism.

Rachel caught John's eye over the demon's shoulder. She knew the _language_ , but it looked like she'd need help with the actual words.

"Ergo…" John prompted, flinching as the demon took a shaking step back toward him.

"Ergo," said Rachel, halting the demon in its tracks, "Draco maledicte… Ecclesiam…?" Uncertain as her tone was, the words were still enough to put the demon in a world of hurt. It turned and stumbled back toward her. Not smart, but it was probably in too much pain to think properly now.

"…tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire," John recited in one breath, trying to get as many words out as possible before the demon turned back on him. Even if its movements were twitchy and unsteady, that blade was still plenty dangerous and with John cornered and unarmed as he was all it would take was one lucky hit on the demon's part to end him. This fact was at the forefront of his mind as the demon raised the blade in preparation for a clumsy slash.

" _Te, ro…_ " John said through gritted teeth, throwing a quick glare in Rachel's direction. He tensed, preparing to dodge as best he could in the limited space.

"Te rogamus!" Rachel cried. The demon screamed and dropped to its knees. "Audi nos!"

The blade fell to the floor with a clatter and black smoke streamed out the demon's gaping mouth, rudely engulfing John in a dark, sulfurous cloud before buggering off to Hell. He coughed and adjusted his coat, trying to shake off the creepy feeling it left behind, like icy pins and needles…

He nearly pissed himself when a hand grabbed his ankle.

He looked down to see the demon—make that the demon's _meatsuit_ —crumpled at his feet, staring up at him with agony in his watery eyes.

" _Th-thank you,_ " he whispered, a bit of blood dribbling out from between his lips. His head sank to the floor and his eyes closed.

"No…" John muttered, crouching down next to the body. He checked for a pulse, but he'd have been surprised to find one. Without the demon holding it together the body had crumpled at all kinds of odd angles humans weren't supposed to do, and if the puddle of blood leaking out its mouth was any indication it was even more banged up inside than it looked on the outside.

John sighed. No pulse. This wasn't the first exorcism he'd seen end this way and with his luck it wouldn't be the last, but, still, moments like this were hard to let go.

Rachel crossed the room cautiously, her eyes on the body as if it might pop up and menace her some more at any second. When she reached them she asked, "Is he…?"

"No one home, no," said John dully, straightening up, "From the look of it our friend drives his rentals pretty hard." He felt his fists tighten involuntarily. " _Bastard._ "

The way Rachel looked at him then had him worried he'd gone too far off-script, that Castiel would never have gone into a huff like that over something like this and the jig was up, but instead of calling him out, she touched his arm gently.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Castiel," she said, "There was no time to save him; anyone could see that. And, after all he went through, after everything that demon must have done with his body, isn't it… _better_ he went to his eternal rest, rather than stay in this painful place?"

John's eyes narrowed. He turned from her, pulling away from her touch.

"That's his call, not mine," he said flatly, "And not yours."

She sighed. John would've expected—to hell with it, would've _liked_ —to have heard a healthy dose of pain, _guilt_ , in that breath, but it was more like mild irritation, perhaps even affectionate condescension.

"They told me to expect answers like that if I asked you anything about humans."

 _Think that's funny, do you?_ John thought, stuffing his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't see his fists clenching again. And here he'd been planning to go back to Cas and tell him he had an in with this bird if he was interested, but _now_ he was pretty damn sure she was _not_ the angel's type. Somewhere underneath the fury that was underneath his tense-yet-cool façade he thought he might be starting to honestly like the winged bastard, fashion faux pas notwithstanding…

…until he remembered learning yesterday that demons weren't the only ones who drove their rentals too hard.

"Castiel?" said Rachel.

"What?" John snapped, harsher than he should have. Bloody angels. He'd had his fill for today. Hell, for this lifetime, more like.

"You're dismissed," Rachel replied, her tone a good twenty degrees cooler, "Please, feel free to return to your friends outside. I'll take care of the body."

"Great," John muttered. He turned to leave, stooping to retrieve the doorknob from the floor first. To think he'd started the day halfway looking _forward_ to this little interview… Oh, bloody hell.

He was halfway out the door when he suddenly stopped, turned back around.

"Just one more thing…" he said.

"What?"

"I don't suppose you've heard anything about the Brujeria coming back, have you?"

"The Brujeria?" Rachel frowned, "No, I've heard nothing of them since the old days. Why? Have _you_ heard something?"

"Oh, um, not exactly," said John, thinking quickly, "Just heard some human praying about something along those lines, is all. Could be nothing."

"Could be," said Rachel, "But if it isn't… Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Castiel."

"Sure, no problem," said John awkwardly, turning back toward the door. He wasn't sure what answer he'd really wanted from Rachel, but that wasn't it.

He exited the office to find both Winchesters waiting outside, pinning him with a pair of looks that rivaled Castiel's infamous gaze for intensity.

"What happened in there?" Dean demanded,

"Yeah, uh, 'Cas,'" said Sam with a nervous glance toward the room beyond the door, "We took care of that demon's friends for you, but, uh…"

"Well," said John, "As it so happened, he came equipped to dodge a smiting, but, you know me, I was able to improvise."

"Well," said Dean, "That's… great. Obviously."

"We should go," said Sam quickly, "And we can talk about it on the drive back, right?"

"Sure," said John. Like the Winchesters, he kept what he _really_ wanted to say to himself, lest Rachel choose this moment to finally catch on. He knew the boys were dying for a recap and he'd give them one sooner or later, but right now he wanted absolutely nothing more than to go smoke a Silk Cut somewhere quiet without any people, or people-shaped things.


	9. Denouncement

"Okay," said Chas, "You mind going over that again?"

"Chas…" said Zed. They were standing outside the container, talking to Cas through the double doors.

"What?"

"He _said_ the doors are chained shut with a lock. What else is there to go over?"

"There has to be a key."

"I _have_ the key," came Cas's muffled voice from the other side of the doors.

"Wait, what?" said Zed.

"So _why_ did we walk all the way down here?"

"I can't touch the lock. I was barely able to pick the key up."

"Can't _touch_ it?" Chas shot Zed an incredulous look.

"It's warded."

"Against _you?_ " Chas gave Zed another look. Zed resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Do you think I'm lying?"

"I…" Chas rolled _his_ eyes, " _No_ , but… really?"

"We can't afford to linger here."

"Yeah," said Chas, "I get that." He glanced back up the hill at his car. Looked to Zed. "You think we could yank the doors off?"

"They're very sturdy," came Cas's voice, "I'm afraid the kind of force it would take to sufficiently damage them would attract attention. We don't want that."

"I _know_ ," said Chas.

"There are _many_ corpses in here."

"I _get_ it," said Chas.

"I'm merely explaining why I refrained from tearing the doors off their hinges myself," said Cas reproachfully.

"You can do that?" said Chas.

"Yes."

Zed frowned.

"Well what do you expect _me_ to do?" Chas asked.

No response.

"We're going to have to tear the doors off," said Chas. Zed rubbed her eyes with one hand.

"That's _not_ a good idea," Cas insisted, "We should avoid doing anything suspicious; your vehicle is very distinctive."

"Wow," said Chas, "That means a lot coming from _you_."

"Cas," said Zed sharply before the nattering could go on any further.

"Yes?"

"Let me get this straight," said Zed, "The doors're chained shut."

"Yes."

"And there's a lock on the chain."

"Yes."

"Which you can't touch."

"Yes."

"And you _could_ tear the doors off no problem? You're strong enough to do that?"

"Yes, but—"

" _One more question,_ " Zed cut him off while Chas rolled his eyes again.

"Yes?" Cas's voice was apologetic.

"Can you touch the _chain?_ "

Silence, for several seconds. Then a little bit of clinking followed by the quiet, grating whine of a small piece of metal in distress.

oOo

John was getting twitchy. He hadn't gotten the chance to get in that smoke he wanted between exiting the hospital and climbing in the backseat of Dean's car and Dean had made it quite clear that smoking in the car was not to be attempted by anyone without a death wish. The drive back to the millhouse was running painfully long and he'd gotten voted down when he suggested a pit stop. Classic pitiless non-smokers, these two. Well, if they didn't give a toss about his misery he might as well pay them in kind.

He sighed theatrically and leaned back in his seat, eyeing the backs of the brothers' heads, the not-quite-relaxed set of their shoulders.

"Y'know," he said, "I've been thinking."

For an uncomfortably long moment neither of them responded. Dean glanced at Sam, then, voice taught with irritation, said, "Yeah?"

"I was just wondering about your mate's 'vessel.'"

He watched both pairs of shoulders tense.

"What about it?" Dean said.

"Either of you ever get to meet the previous owner?"

The brothers eyed each other silently for a tense handful of seconds.

"Jimmy? Yeah," said Dean with a sigh, "Good guy."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"Was he, now?" said John, his voice low. Maybe he'd gone in telling himself he just wanted to bother the Winchesters, but he couldn't ignore the icy lump of anger sitting in his stomach. "More's the pity what happened to him, then."

"Shut up," said Dean flatly, "It didn't 'happen to him,' he chose it."

"That's what made him a good guy," Sam added.

Their words triggered a haunting echo in John's mind: _"It was his choice, and it was a brave one. You need to respect that."_ John grimaced.

"Hey," said Dean, catching his face in the rearview mirror, "You sayin' you've got a _problem_ with Cas? Because last time I checked he already saved your ass once and probably just got done saving it again." John could hear in his tone that he'd crossed a line he shouldn't have. _Oh, Johnny-boy, when will you to learn to leave well enough alone?_

"Look, I wasn't trying to get all personal with you boys—"

"Sure," said Dean, "No one here wants to get _personal_."

"Right," said Sam, "If we wanted to get personal we'd start asking questions about how _your_ 'mate' got all those extra souls."

"No way _that_ didn't involve some bad mojo."

"Alright, alright," said John, throwing up his hands in surrender, "You've made your point."

"I'm just sayin'," said Dean, "If _you've_ never let someone down just trying to do the job then, well, you're one lucky bastard."

"Not me," John muttered darkly.

"My _point_ is," Dean said, "We're all doing the same job here, right? Cas ain't the only one who's hurt people along the way. He gets the job done and does his best to put right what he got wrong. What more do you want?"

"Nothing," said John, shaking his head, wanting the topic to drop now. _Which bloke in a trenchcoat are you_ really _mad at, John?_ To think he'd spent all that time at Ravenscar pissing about with the "professionals" when at the end of the day these "therapeutic" questions wrote themselves. So Cas was doing his best. Bloody good for him. It wouldn't bring Jimmy back, but there was nothing to gain from pointing that out to the Winchesters. Best to just keep quiet for the rest of the ride home, and try to remember today was still a win.

oOo

When everyone regrouped at the millhouse there was a happy debriefing that turned into a celebration; Chas grilled up some burgers, there were drinks all around, and for the first time since the motley crew had assembled, all six of them finally felt okay with letting their guards down, if only for a few hours. Once they were both well over the legal intoxication threshold the Winchester brothers agreed it'd be best to stay the night again. For once they didn't have anywhere they urgently needed to be soon anyway.

The day had been tiring enough that all the humans were in bed by midnight, sleeping with varying degrees of tranquility.

oOo

 _The smell of sulfur was thick in the air and Astra's screams pierced his eardrums. He watched the tears stream down her cheeks as he reached out for her. It felt like trying to push his arm through a tonne of sand but he kept stretching. If she could only take his hand, if he could only hold on tight enough, then run fast enough…_

" _Joooohn!"_

John awoke with a gasp, his chest rapidly heaving up and down until the disorientation began to fade and his racing heartbeat slowed. His bedsheets clung to his clammy skin as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Another bloody Newcastle nightmare. No more than he deserved, he supposed, but bollocks if they didn't play havoc with what small semblance of a sleep schedule he had left these days. He checked the clock next to his bed. Oh-three-hundred. The borderline between late and early. Not a bad time for a smoke.

A few minutes later he was out on the front deck of the millhouse, halfway through a Silk Cut as he lounged against the wall in nothing but his underwear, a pair of slippers, and his coat, which he'd thrown on more to ward off any chills than for modesty's sake.

He hoped neither Chas nor Zed woke up and came looking for him; he'd never hear the end of it if they got the idea that all the complaining they did about him smoking inside was paying off. It was for that very reason he made a _point_ of smoking indoors during waking hours, when the sun was up and the Georgia heat was unbearable, but, at moments like this, when it was dark and quiet and the heat had abated a bit, when the stars were out and the fireflies chased each other in playful circles through the shadows, there was something peaceful, almost soothing _,_ about having a smoke outside.

He'd just about finished this one when something flickered in the corner of his eye and all of a sudden there was a dark figure leaning on the railing.

John turned his head to look at him a second, scoffed, and turned his head away as he tossed his stub to the floor and stamped it out.

"Oh _now_ he turns up. The bloody hell have you been?"

"Busy," Manny murmured, cocking his head to one side curiously as he examined John's new look. John had almost forgotten about the hair, again. Kept startling himself every time he saw a mirror. "Sorry I missed whatever prompted _that_."

"You've been missing all _kinds_ of fun," John said, crossing his arms and giving Manny the side-eye, "Had a little misadventure with one of _your_ crew today."

"My—what? You don't mean another angel."

"I do in fact," said John, "Don't suppose you've heard the name 'Castiel' before?"

John had a split-second to register the tell-tale sound of fluttering wings before he and Manny were suddenly face-to-face. He flinched at the abrupt proximity, but the look on the angel's face was what put ice in his veins.

"So you _have_ heard of him, I take it," John said.

"Every angel in Heaven knows that name, John." From Manny's tone John got the impression he didn't mean Castiel was the Beatles kind of famous.

Manny spun around, running a hand through his hair and launching into a nervous pace from one end of the deck to the other.

"Well, well." John forced a chuckle. "Let me guess, old son: I should've told you right off, and I'm lucky to be alive?"

" _You're_ fine," Manny snapped irritably, "You're human. _Humans_ tend to get a pass, even the non-Winchester ones. _I'm_ the one that's 'lucky to be alive.'" The flutter of wings again, and again they were face-to-face.

"You didn't mention _my_ name to _him_ , did you?"

"Might've done," said John with an apologetic shrug. This elicited a wordless moan of frustration from Manny and set him to pacing again.

John watched him with a critical eye. He hadn't expected this reaction from Manny, this level of fear, but it _did_ seem genuine.

After a couple of laps of the deck, Manny muttered, "I need to go." He disappeared with no further fanfare.

Then again, John wondered, was Manny's little performance really any _more_ genuine than Cas's concern when they'd discussed Manny the day before?

He thought back to what the other angel had said to him then. _"I'm not telling you who to trust, I'm telling you who not to."_ Sometimes, at the end of the day, it's that "not to" list you _really_ need, innit?

oOo

The next morning Chas cooked everyone breakfast before it was time for the Winchesters to head out. According to Zed Cas had already left the night before on some mysterious business of his own. This news seemed to bother Constantine, but the others shrugged it off and ate. Sam volunteered to help Zed do the dishes after, while Dean and Constantine cleared the table.

"Hey," Constantine said as he half-heartedly gathered a fistful of silverware, "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," said Dean, stacking up the plates with a series of clatters.

"Last night," said Constantine, "When he gave us his recap, Cas said something about 'warding,' and it sounded like he meant warding against angels. That's a new one for me, and if it's something you or your brother could teach a bloke how to do I'd be _very_ interested in some lessons."

"Been there," Dean said with a nod, grabbing a couple of cups, "Yeah, we can show you a few tricks before we leave. Sam'll probably want to trade for some alone time with that book of yours."

"Well," said Constantine, grinning as he dumped his bundle of silverware on top of Dean's plate stack, "I suppose so long as he doesn't hand it back with the pages all sticky…"

"No promises," said Dean, laughing.

oOo

A few hours later John had a couple pages' worth of instructions on how to get rid of angels and keep them out once they were gone, and Sam had taken copious notes of his own. Zed had said her goodbyes to the Winchesters, Chas had wistfully bid the Impala farewell, and John was caught between praying he'd never see these lads again and asking for a phone number.

"Hey," Dean said to him after slamming the Impala's trunk shut, "Don't really know how all that heavenly book-keeping stuff was supposed to work, but, from what I could tell, you did good. If you guys ever need anything…"

"Right," said John, "And look, I don't know if that one read up on the duplicity spell, but…" He gestured at Sam, who was already buckled into the Impala's passenger seat.

"Yeah," said Dean walking around to the driver's side and leaning against the car, "He told me it should 'like' us now, if we ever wanted to stop by. Unless you re-cast it."

"Wasn't planning on it," said John, shrugging, "Assuming, however, that the angel-proofing you boys taught me is the genuine article, I'm afraid your friend won't be able to visit anytime soon."

"I'll let him down easy for you," said Dean with a wink. John laughed. There was a pause and then, with an awkward shrug and a grab for driver's side door handle, Dean said, "Well, see ya around, Columbo."

"See ya around," said Constantine.

THE END


End file.
